


Make Me

by Sheepnamedpig



Series: Tumblr Fics [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dream Sex, M/M, Magic, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sculpture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:50:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheepnamedpig/pseuds/Sheepnamedpig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>qhuinn wanted: I’d love to read Stiles *worshipping* Derek’s body. You know how people usually write Derek mapping Stiles’ body yadda yadda? I want the contrary. I want Stiles getting off on getting Derek off, and I want Derek to get off so hard he sees stars</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Me

"Make me," Stiles mouths. He puts his hands on the large block of marble and closes his eyes. An image of the man from his dream springs immediately to the fore and he slides his hands over cool, smoky stone, mapping out the location of the man’s head, shoulders, and arms.

"Make me," the man had said to him, as he reeled Stiles in for a kiss. “Make me."

Stiles gets his chisel and peels away the layers of stone between himself and the man.

A jaw emerges sometime later, unearthed from the rough cocoon Stiles has hewn the block down to. Stiles eagerly digs for more, revealing the shape of the head, a rough outline of hair, but he leaves the details of the features for last. A treat, dessert.

The man’s neck is powerful, thick and muscular between Stiles’ palms, and Stiles needs more, so he carves eagerly (but carefully, so carefully, don’t want to wound him) for the man’s shoulders.

"Make me," he murmurs to the sloping planes of muscle. The man’s broadly muscled shoulders are hard with tightly-leashed strength. In his dreams, Stiles puts his mouth on them, laving them with affection as the man shivers in his arms. In the waking world, he chips away at the rest of the marble, desperate for more to touch and explore and adore.

One pectoral, and Stiles loses too many minutes tracing the curve of the muscle and the raised nub of the nipple. Two pectorals, and Stiles kisses across the chest, pursing his lips over one tender little nub while his fingers pet and play with the other. The stone grows warm under his attention. The man arches into the teasing touch, when Stiles dreams of him, his broad hands cupping Stiles’ skull.

Stiles spends days chasing after those hands, stripping away layers of stone from the thick biceps and strong forearms, lined with veins, and then scratching away the stone encasing broad palms and thick fingers. He makes love to those hands in the old way, leaning close and murmuring to them, brushing away errant dust with the fan of his breath and the teasing caress of his lip.

"Make me," he explains. When he sleeps, the man traces the bow of his upper lip, the sweep of his lower lip, and echoes, “Make me."

The routine of Stiles’ days is broken only by periodic visits from Deaton, who makes bland small talk interspersed with characteristically cryptic comments about Stiles’ progress. Yes, Stiles is thankful to the man for getting him the marble in the first place, but he wishes Deaton would go away so Stiles could get back to exhuming his dream man from the stone.

An abdomen, a symmetrical range of muscle fanning out, trailing down to the little cave of the belly button, where Stiles’ pinky finger fits just so. Stiles carves a little deeper, chisel falling into the defined vee of the man’s hips and stopping just shy of a soft, slumbering cock. Stiles traces the musculature of the man’s front, flat palms and trailing fingers up and down the chest and belly. More than once Stiles pauses, thinking he’s felt the rise and fall of breath in stone warmed by Stiles’ own body heat.

In his dreams, the man is desperate for Stiles’ touch, flushed and arching, guiding Stiles’ hands lower with hitched, begging “make me—“s. So Stiles aims his tools lower, easing marble away from the man’s flaccid cock. Awake, he cups his palm reverently over the soft bulge of it, but in his dreams he strips it roughly, the hard length of it hot in his hands as the man thrusts wantonly into his grip, never quite coming.

Stiles wants more. He attacks the stone heaped on the man’s back with determination, shaving away layer after layer until Stiles can finally lay his hands on the smooth, broad back, corded with dense muscle. Lower, two divots crowning a lush, round ass. He lavishes the man’s back with as much devotion as he’d lavished on his front, and for a good while, Stiles doesn’t even see the man’s face in his dreams, it’s always turned away. Stiles doesn’t mind, and neither does the man seem to, and Stiles spends a week’s worth dreams with his face buried in the man’s crack, his tongue abusing the man’s twitching, eager hole. His enthusiastic cries of pleasure make Stiles want to put him on his hands and knees and  _fuck_  him.

So Stiles does. He carves away the stone from between the man’s legs, chipping it away from the knobs of kneecaps and the tender flesh in the bend, and when he pushes the man down in his dreams, he goes. He takes Stiles’ cock so sweetly, so desperately, that when Stiles gets out of bed, it’s with tears on his face from missing the man.

Stiles races to finish. Thick calves that Stiles kneads with his palms, the stone warm before he’s even laid a flesh and blood finger on it. Delicate ankles that Stiles traces with this fingertips. Solid feet with long, knobby toes.

In is dreams, every night, the man lays beneath him, grasping and clutching at Stiles, scoring his back with blunt nails, red cross-hatching that stings when Stiles showers in the morning.

The face for last.

"Make me," the man begs, arching into Stiles’ thrusts.

Jaw, lips. Stiles kisses them, long and sucking and tasting of dust and blood. A straight, pointed nose, cheekbones, round ears that grow hot as Stiles smooths away the rough stone that clings to them. Hair, thick, for Stiles to bury his fingers in, for Stiles to pull, leading the man here and there, tipping his head back to expose the long arch of his throat. Forehead, thick eyebrows that Stiles traces with his thumbs, hands cupping the man’s cheeks as he drops chaste pecks on still lips. 

Eyes. Stiles stares into them and overlays them with the prism of color that he sees in his dreams.

Stiles steps away from his creation, the man he’s freed from that block of marble. Every detail is exact, from the divot in his chin to the veins that meander across his feet. Every muscle, every feature has been accounted for, but Stiles’ fingers itch with the instinctive knowledge that the man is still  _incomplete_. 

It frustrates him and he circles the statue impatiently, examining his work from top to bottom for errors to correct. There’s nothing there.

He sleeps, dreams, makes love, and when he wakes in the early morning, he realizes,  _there’s nothing there_.

He rushes out to his studio, the whole world quiet and still, holding its breath for dawn. The statue is waiting for him, body-hot, pulsing with life trapped in a shell of stone. He circles around to its back and lays a hand on the blank gap between the shoulder blades.

There’s nothing there.  _Yet_.

He cuts his thumb on a tool deeply enough that it’ll probably scar. Starting in the center, he presses his thumb to the stone and sweeps upward, curling the line of blood into a spiral like it's fingerpaint. Back to the center. Down to the right, another spiral. A third, equidistant, to the bottom left.

Stiles steps back and the itching in his fingers fades. It’s done.

The blood seeps into the stone, staining it black. It cracks. Crumbles. Falls away to reveal an echoing stain of black on living skin. More cracks form, arcing over stone that peels and flakes away like the brittle skin of an onion. The man’s shoulders flex and the shell of stone slips away, freeing his arms to pull and claw at the rest of the shell. Stiles watches passively as the man tears at the remnants of his marble cocoon.

His body is just as Stiles remembers, familiar in spite of the streaks of stone dust. The only difference is the tattoo between his shoulder blades, the single feature that Stiles added to what was originally there.

The man shakes the last of the stone free of his feet, flexing his toes and trembling with the exhaustion of rebirth. Stiles steps up behind him and catches him as he slumps, drawing him away from the mess of marble shards before lowering them both to a cleaner, safer patch of floor.

The man looks up at him. In the tentative light of dawn, Stiles can see his blown pupils, the dark flush that stretches down his chest, the way the stone dust sticks in his sweat. He can also see the man’s hard cock, pulsing against his lower belly. Stiles reaches for it and the man reaches for him, trembling and weak from months of drawn out pleasure. The man cries out at Stiles’ first stroke and comes on the second, writhing and gasping as come streaks up his belly to his chest, pulse after pulse after pulse.

Stiles wraps the man up in his arms as he comes down from an orgasm months in the making. He’s warm and heavy and finally real in Stiles’ embrace and come hell or high water, Stiles never wants to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're getting deja vu, it's probably because this was originally posted as one of the 'chapters' of my collection of [Tumblr fics](http://archiveofourown.org/works/883881/chapters/1748470). I've pulled it out to give it its own little place instead of leaving it with the rest because it's one of my personal favorites and also because I do what I fucking want.


End file.
